


you're a lizard, Percy (I'm a what?)

by gudetama (elementary)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17344946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: in which Newt compliments Mr. Graves the best way he can





	you're a lizard, Percy (I'm a what?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trensu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trensu/gifts).



> inspired by the salamander eyes thing bc of course Newt thinks that a compliment lol
> 
> I meant to upload more drabbles to the collection but I'm such a lazy git so have just one

Percival's first meeting with Newton Scamander is nothing remarkable—a stilted introduction to a quiet man who holds himself like he wants to disappear and won’t meet his eyes, wearing an ironically eye-catching coat and clashing scarf. According to the president, he’s to be a temporary consultant for some weeks after a book tour which also requires security detail. The fact that she eyes him like he still can’t be trusted is annoying, to say the least, scrutinizing as if he might lose his form and become someone else. Again.

Seraphina Picquery has improved little in her observational skills since then, unaware that she already lost his trust completely for that incident and has yet to gain it back.

The reason that he stands here today able to think such thoughts is supposedly this Mr. Scamander—a name he vaguely recognizes—and he expresses his gratitude, but offers assistance in hopes that it won’t be needed. There is still too much he’s untangling within their government even a year later in the aftermath of Grindelwald, and he hasn’t the time or mind for (in his opinion) trivial foreign matters. As such when Tina asks to oversee the assignment, he passes it on without further thought.

Unexpectedly, that’s hardly the last he sees of Mr. Scamander.

In fact, it seems only yesterday Percival had signed off on permits and other documents and seen the pair out of his office but now, book tour finished, the man is in here on a daily basis with objections against their laws. Specifically, creature laws. Even today, Percival is eyeing Tina standing just behind the door with an apologetic face before facing the man in front of him.

The passion with which Scamander protests is admirable in one sense as he annoyingly persists in having Percival’s attention on these matters.

“It’s basic rights, Mr. Graves, for freedom and protection,” Scamander says, eyes boring into Percival’s although he hardly makes contact any other time. "This is for those who cannot speak for themselves in a language that you would understand.”

It's insubordination, the way he presumes Percival’s stance regarding these legal issues, and were he not a consultant Percival might have considered the usual punishment. (To be honest, he fears some evidence may disappear from the evidence room in that case.) But it’s almost refreshing, this kind of singular mindset and tenacity that speaks of a care beyond for himself. Percival himself doesn’t feel that much these days.

Scamander even makes a few good points that most people in his vicinity could learn from, principles that can apply to anyone.

That isn’t to say he can do much about it; the laws have always been complicated things and implementation of Scamander’s suggestions will be an uphill battle he cannot afford at the moment. Yet he hasn’t the heart to discourage someone so enthusiastic about their beliefs when, for now, it’s relatively harmless. He’s able to tolerate these disruptive visits fine with the long-suffering patience built over years and years of bullshit from idiotic and unkind sorts.

So of course, it’s to be expected that there’s a day when everything that can go wrong goes wrong and anything grates on the last of his nerves, including this consultation.

“Damn it, Scamander; not today,” he bites out rather harshly.

And Scamander stands there frozen, head just peeking inside the door with his mouth ajar as he was about to speak. His expression visibly collapses and Percival doesn’t know why that bothers him.

“You must be terribly busy; I’m sorry, Mr. Graves,” the man offers quietly and leaves.

The office is too quiet in the absence of Scamander’s usual noise and Percival’s headache worsens. A potion usually does the trick of which he has a stash in his drawer, speaking to the frequency of needing them; it removes the physical pain without problem, but fails to erase Scamander's face from his mind.

An apology does not easily come to his thoughts as he hasn’t had to offer one—not genuinely—for a long, long time. He isn’t certain as to why it lingers in the first place, and it only grows as the remainder of the day passes without another glimpse of that headache-inducing—

“Mr. Graves.”

There’s a miniscule pause in which Percival swallows down his surprise and processes the man in question right outside his office as he leaves.

“I had hoped you would leave earlier but I didn’t wish to bother you again,” Scamander continues, eyes making contact for a second then skittering away.

“What are you still doing here?” Percival asks, unsure of how else to respond; he hasn’t even prepared the words to... well. “It’s late.”

“I—uh. This.”

Then a cup is suddenly presented to him. The aroma of hot, fresh coffee wafts up to him and his senses respond to it like a starved man, embarrassingly enough. He takes it carefully and Scamander gives a pleased smile when he mutters his thanks.

Before he drinks it, Percival attempts a half-formed apology for earlier, but Scamander shakes his head.

“That’s alright,” he says.

“It really isn’t,” Percival retorts with a frown, gripping the cup a little tighter.

“Actually, you’ve been far more tolerant of my company for much longer than any other who’d rather not associate with me,” Scamander continues like this is a normal thing to say.

“That isn’t—”

“I recognize dismissal fairly well, you see, though you are excellent at feigning otherwise,” he says, and Scamander’s mouth quirks in a particular way that presents something tired and resigned.

For a minute, Percival can’t respond; it simultaneously impresses and shames him that the man had noticed Percival’s lacking attentiveness despite his efforts at professionalism. That ceased to be the case in later days but it seems the man failed to reach that conclusion.

“I wanted to, to thank you, still; you’ve been kind in indulging my nonsense—”

“That’s enough,” Percival interrupts with a sigh.

Then he’s ushering the confused man back into the office where Percival sets straight the facts and finally apologizes. The surprise and immediate caution on Scamander’s face is telling, that perhaps he hadn’t been extended even this sort of basic courtesy very often.

“I will be open to listen when I can,” Percival says before he can think about regretting it. “It may not always be pleasantly received from my end as you already experienced, but your work is appreciated. As you’ve said, they need a voice that will speak on their behalf.”

Scamander nods like he understands but his actions are tentative for some days afterwards. He can hardly be blamed for that; not many are willing to bring themselves back to face his tempers. But one morning, the man enters with a knock and a cup in each hand, the coffee set down on his desk as if asking for permission. Percival picks it up and takes a sip, permission granted.

Before he knows it, he’s listening to Scamander prattle on about a creature fact of the day while he’s signing more papers than he knows what to do with. Before he knows it, he’s making comments and asking questions, pen stationary in his hand. Before he knows it, it’s Newt and he’s commenting and asking about what Percival is doing in return and sometimes giving creative input.

There’s a coffee waiting on his desk in the mornings and book manuscripts mixed in with very important documents, crumbs from lunch and snacks scattered over them for which he scolds Newt. Several times. Until the man’s desk migrates into the office and there’s a semi-permanent seat for Newt in one corner of Percival’s.

"Which one's your favourite?” Percival asks one day, wondering how the question never occurred to him before.

Newt, perched on the desk as usual and legs kicking, lets out a contemplative hum. “I don’t tend to favour creatures, or at least I try not to, but one really can’t help themselves when something happens to possess more qualities aligning with one’s preference than others.”

“If you mean to justify that you do have favourites, there really is no need,” Percival says dryly. “Favourites are for personal reasons.”

“Yes, well, that doesn’t mean I should show it,” Newt says. “They do get envious, you know.”

Merlin’s beard, Percival thinks, and circles a grammatical error on the report with red ink.

“But. But, the smaller kinds I do tend to have particular care towards,” Newt starts slowly. He twirls his wand in his hand and Percival is vaguely horrified at the careless movement, and also disgusted thinking about whether he cleaned it after it being in his mouth earlier. “They have the disadvantage of size—something any sort of creature picks on, including humans—but are quite resilient in their own way.”

Percival nods along absently and spells the report back to its owner.

“Take salamanders for example. Cute little critters, short-limbed and colourful, eyes round with such light and depth! Their regenerative abilities are near-incomparable and some contain powerful poisons for which I hope to find an antidote soon—”

That catches Percival’s complete attention. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Newt says too quickly.

“No, please do tell, Newton,” Percival insists, peering up at the man. “I thought we were done with the poisons.”

“That was the other one,” Newt mumbles.

“You’re already at risk on a regular basis without voluntarily exposing yourself to harmful _unknown_  chemicals.”

Newt turns away with a grumble that sounds suspiciously like, “Yes, mother,” hopping off the desk to go sulk—yes, sulk—on the couch. _Unbelievable_ , Percival shakes his head.

Yet he understands, somewhat, standing inside that magnificent suitcase when he deigns to visit every so often, ever-growing, ever-changing as it cycles all sorts of fantastic beasts in and out.

The first time had him awestruck, amazed in a way like he hadn’t been since he was a child experiencing the world outside of his home, studying magic and people. Newt had stood next to him, nervously wringing his hands and Percival had said something about permits to see the anxiety replaced by indignant annoyance, the man huffing that _yes, he has them all in order_  before giving a thorough and informative tour of the place.

Now it’s natural to help Newt (or watch him do rounds, mostly; Percival still hesitates to be too close) and spend time with him inside the case.

Times like these, there’s a tranquility that quiets all other distractions and brings to the surface something tentative and a little familiar, a feeling he had long-forgotten in the midst of having his life completely occupied by his duties. They’re moved as Newt chatters with excitement, turning a smile Percival’s way every once in a while and genuinely seeming to enjoy his company as well. His hair is in its usual mess with Pickett sitting atop it, sleeves rolled up to show rather muscular forearms that tighten as he lifts buckets of feeds. Percival looks away when he catches himself staring.

Later, they’re sitting on one of the hills and watching the habitats settle into their respective resting hours. Newt eventually quiets, too, for long enough that Percival glances over curiously then blink in surprise when he finds the man’s eyes on him. His gaze is a soft green, unwavering and unmoving. What he’s seeing, Percival doesn’t know.

“Just like a salamander’s,” Newt mutters, then smiles as if in realization.

“Excuse me?” Percival frowns.

“Your eyes, I mean,” Newt says with an almost happy sigh, eyes crinkling.

Percival can count on one finger the number of times his eyes have been compared to a salamander's (which is a few seconds ago) and he would have been perplexed and offended if he didn’t know better. The point is he does, proving how well-acquainted he is with Newt Scamander, recognizing that it’s an honest compliment coming from the only man who could express it in such a way. The only man who loves all sorts of creatures and finds utmost beauty in each one. At Percival's silence as he processes this, Newt looks as if he regrets blurting that out, his lips pursed and eyes wide with nerves.

“Thank you, Newt,” Percival responds in the next moment, as sincere and genuine as he can manage. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

It’s a tiny wonder to see relief fill Newt’s face followed by a pretty smile because he's happy that Percival understands.

“You smile like a salamander,” Percival continues in jest with a straight face.

The following changes in expression are quite entertaining to watch—confusion, “Salamanders don’t—”, consideration, “Wait, do they—”

And finally realization, “Merlin, you're joking.”

It's difficult not to laugh after that though he tries, and Newt appears torn on how to react. He settles on a frown that’s more like a pout—rather suitable—and it's impulse to lean in and kiss it. There's a moment of shocked silence that follows from both of them and Percival worries that he crossed a line; how unlike his usual, careful self, yet he also can’t help but think how good that had felt.

Before he can apologize, hands grasp his face and tilt it, a warm mouth slotting over his. The position is a bit awkward and it’s more a mashing of lips than kissing. Newt’s eyes are scrunched closed, lashes quivering and freckles blending into pink skin, and Percival takes the hands that are squeezing too hard to settle more comfortably on his shoulders. He then cups Newt’s jaw and angles them to meet easier, smoother, a peck and a hint of tongue. The kiss is wetter by the time they part, both breathing a bit heavier with Newt somehow in his lap.

Percival smiles up at the blushing man, swiping a thumb across Newt’s slick, bottom lip. “You kiss like a—”

“Oh my god, Percy, do shut up,” Newt groans.

And before he has a chance to respond, Newt does it for him.


End file.
